


low tide

by antagonists



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:54:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8188640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: Stories of ghosts, glimpses of a nine-tailed fox and a beautiful woman, vague memories of a one-horned demon emerging from a broken vase. Hana remembers her father telling her stories of all these creatures, but only once. Her mother had burned the crude little book with its crude charcoal illustrations, afraid.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> 사랑하는 주윤에게 ㅃㅃ 함께해줘서 고맙다 <3
> 
>  
> 
> _"They called her witch because she knew how to heal herself." --Here We Are, Reflections of a God Gone Mad_

*

 

 

Chuseok by the oceanside is a bit of a lonely thing.

 

Hana doesn’t dislike the solitude—prefers it to the gabble of village chatter in the morning and gossip in the cooling autumn afternoons. Yet there’s something about watching the pastel flutter of silk and ribbon from a distance, the sound of waves all around her. Absentmindedly, she fingers the pale blue of her sleeves. Her sandals softly crunch the sand beneath her.

 

Her father had done her hair this morning, pulling it into two thick, coiling braids, held in place by a simple golden piece and ornaments that Hana knows is worth more than anything else in their household.

 

”Not nearly enough to truly compliment your beauty,” her father had said, smiling in the wistful way a parent realizes their child is no longer quite so young anymore. She is all that he has now. “Look at you; dressed up like the skies and the ocean. Your mother would have been so proud.”

 

 _She died at sea, father_ , is what Hana had wanted to say, but she'd merely tucked her chin closer to her chest. While she enjoys the food and bright decorations that festivities invite, white crests and a blue horizon are lingering wounds. Hana knows her father is trying to appear strong; death at sea for a fisherman is not so uncommon in these parts, especially with the resurgence of angry spirits and larger, hungrier sea creatures.

 

When her mother’s sandal had washed ashore, alone and heavy with saltwater, the head of the village had insisted on placating the stormy spirits; he'd sent a messenger into the mountains equipped only with three days of rations and an old mare. Shamans are not so commonly called for further north, with how adamant the kings and such seem to be with stricter doctrines. But here: here, closer to what seems like the end of the world, they are the blue paint to expensive porcelain, the fragrant spices to every afternoon meal.

 

The mudang from a few villages over had come to visit them a few weeks ago, dressed primly in her scarlet, scarlet robes and clattering wood beads, scuffed straw sandals. She had prayed and danced and sung by the shores for five days and five nights, reedy voice wavering over the salty breeze. Attempting to appease, searching for heavenly guidance.

 

All the sea had to offer in response, though, was seashell silence.

 

“Have you told your father yet?” asks Hindol, peering at Hana curiously. They’d escaped the crowd after several rounds of yutnori, all of which Hana had easily won (with one intentional loss). There’s a big orange blot on his green jeogori where he’d dropped ddeokbokki earlier, and he’s given up on trying to scrub it clean. He has longer hair than Hana does, and a face pretty enough that the village women like to fawn over him excessively. Scrawny, buck-toothed and boyish, certainly willing to entertain Hana’s tendencies for uncouth pranks.  Hana is quite fond of him; even if he’s dense at times, Hindol comes from far away and offers refreshing stories of his childhood in the mountains.

 

Stories of ghosts, glimpses of a nine-tailed fox and a beautiful woman, vague memories of a one-horned demon emerging from a broken vase. Hana remembers her father telling her stories of all these creatures, but only once. Her mother had burned the crude little book with its crude charcoal illustrations, afraid.

 

“He’d try to stop me, I think,” Hana frowns. “The village women like to talk.”

 

“Abooout?” Hindol drags a finger through wet sand, stopping once his voice cracks and breaks off into a questioning inflection.

 

“About mom,” she says. “How there are gods in the seas and the skies, how they judge wrongdoers. Angry spirits, yada, you know the deal.”

 

Picking at his nose, Hindol makes a face as he stares up at the moon, entranced. “Well, I mean, there are imugi out there. Maybe one got her.”

 

“I still don’t think I should tell my dad.”

 

“Tell your dad what?”

 

“That I’m leaving?” Hana kicks sand at his leg and immediately regrets it. Sand in her shoes is _awful_. “I can’t just—just say I’m going to explore and learn more about, I don’t know, moon rabbits.”

 

“They are very busy today,” Hindol nods sagely, and picks his nose again. The moonlight sets an odd sheen over his tan skin. “Oh, I almost forgot,” he says, reaching into his clothes to pull out what appears to be some wooden talisman. “I made this thing for you. Parting gift, since, y’know, you’re not letting me follow you.”

 

“And let you be the main character?” Hana sniffs, and reaches out for the gift. Her name is very haphazardly carved into the side, and the face of the charm appears to have some… disturbed demon depicted on it. Strange writing surrounds the carving. There’s a pink tassel attached, which seems to be its only redeeming quality. “Why is there a monster on this thing?”

 

“It’s a rabbit!” Hindol protests, sitting up to jab a dirty finger at the charm. “See? Two ears! One’s floppy though—not a mistake, promise. And here are its eyes and mouth, see?”

 

She makes a face at him. Hindol is more illiterate than not, so it’s a bit touching that he can at least recognize and write (most of) her name correctly. There must be bandages on his fingers; she’d noticed because he usually picks his nose with his right pinky, not his left.

 

“Make sure to, uh, write me a letter or something,” he tells her thickly, dark eyes brimming with tears. “I’ll learn how to read? And write? So I can write back. So you better not make fun of my handwriting, you jerk.”

 

 _I’ll miss you_ , is really what he’s saying. Hana sighs and combs her fingers through his long hair as he sniffles into his sleeve, watching the moonlight glimmer over the waves.

 

She’s called in first by her father, who’s always concerned about her spending time searching for grubs with boys instead of helping with chores. (Concerned more, now that Hana spends less evenings with rowdy company and more by the seaside). Hana turns around every so often as she walks back to her home, memorizing the details of a friend’s silhouette stark against the glowing shore.

 

 

*

 

 

She dreams, sometimes, about deep red eyes watching her from the east. A yawning black hole, jagged stones like teeth. A temper stormier than monsoon season. At first Hana thinks that it may be the dragon god of the seas, but she cannot imagine a god looking so sinister, so wrathful and cold, isolated without the warmth of prayers and offerings.

 

It wouldn’t be the first time she has seen a demon in her sleep. Hana remembers having dreamed of one the night before her mother disappeared, two days before her sandal came floating back ashore. Yet another a few days before a baksu had shown up in the village all those years ago, Hindol in tow. A young mountain boy: sooty, wounded, feral. There are more in distant nightmares from her childhood, but she remembers some of them to be kind, only some of them frightening.

 

All with sharp teeth, a smart mouth, eyes that hold more knowledge than the faded ink in silk scrolls.

 

When she reaches a shrine and steps quietly into the stony tranquil, the guardian lions’ eyes seem to follow her. Although she knows that they are mere statues, there is the unshakeable feeling of being watched. Perhaps they think she is an untamed spirit, wandering far from her forgotten, unmarked grave.

 

 _Lo-o-ost little girl,_ the wind croons. The mirror upon the stone altar shudders. She looks to her left, to her right, and sees nothing but swaying autumn foliage, an unlit stone lantern. The lions are still, frozen mid-roar.

 

 _Lo-o-ost little girl_ , the wind hums again. Hana grips the wooden talisman wound around her neck, and presses onward.

 

“You smell like the ocean,” says a soft-voiced woman, worn robes paling from red into lotus pastels. An old mudang, perhaps a runaway. They are a dying breed, of sorts, persecuted as tainted messengers farther up north. Perhaps she’d fled, walked through fire and rain to find solace in prayer. She’s kneeling upon the straw mats laid over the hard ground, eyes shut and palms pressed together. “Have you come to pray? Storms have been terrible, lately.”

 

Hana watches the incense smoke curl into silvery fronds, pale lines that seem to etch spells into the air. “You seem to have traveled far.”

 

“The mountains are not far from here,” the mudang says, lifts her head to regard Hana curiously. “Though I cannot say the same for the sea.”

 

“I’m just visiting,” Hana lies. Even for her, it’s hard to imagine someone visiting a shrine this far away from a town, secluded and hidden within yellowing leaves heavy with rain.

 

“I see,” the mudang smiles, tilting her head when she notices Hana staring at the shuddering hand mirror upon the altar. “Are you afraid?”

 

“My mother’s mirrors never did that,” Hana replies, wary. Although it helps her nerves to have someone else here with her, the clatter of the mirror’s brass edges are like strikes to her bones.

 

“A mere mirror goblin, no more.”

 

“A goblin?”

 

“You see,” the mudang points to a pile of discarded items by the shrine. “Some spirits like to make home out of abandoned possessions like those. Others? Well, perhaps mistreatment creates a grudge, and eventually, a ghost.”

 

 _Lo-o-ost little girl_.

 

“Never look into a mirror goblin’s eye. They might bewitch you, dear.” Pausing, the women considers Hana for another moment, and Hana is briefly hyperconscious of how her clothes hang off her body the wrong way, how her face must be too round to really pass, eyes too big, too naive— “Although you seem to be carrying a talisman with you already. How curious.”

 

Hindol’s gift. Hana squeezes it and takes in a quiet breath. “From a friend.”

 

“A good friend,” the mudang says, and returns to her prayers.

 

As the shaman mumbles and mutters something that Hana cannot understand, the mirror continues to quiver, reflecting shards of light onto the underside of the roof. Hana is half-tempted to walk over and throw it elsewhere. Instead, she retreats quietly away from the shrine, shuffling backwards to keep an eye on the woman’s faded robes, her small back, the shaking goblin and the pile of abandoned dreams left to the side.

 

She wonders how the woman is so unafraid. It cannot be so simple, she muses, braving solitude only one moment away from the hands of malicious spirits.

 

But then again, in these times, women have always faced much worse.

 

Hana thinks back to her mother braving the stormy seas while father tended to household chores, how she would brush off the occasional villager who’d try to weasel their way into her good graces. Once upon a time, Hana’s mother had wielded sword and spell, had once been a noble’s prize before settling down by the sea. A warrior before a fisherwoman, washing her bloodied hands in oceanspray so she could hold her child with clean hands.

 

Gone, now.

 

Hana resumes walking alongside the dirt roads in the mountains, wishing the sea monster hadn’t taken so much away.

 

 

*

 

 

She meets a stranger from the mainland, round and pretty eyes, white teeth and white robes. Bad luck for someone born in the year of the rabbit, but Hana has never been much for superstition.

 

 _Mei_ _is my name_ , she writes, since Hana cannot understand the verbal intonations, and Mei cannot understand hers.

 

They sit at a small table in the corner of a tea house, scribbling on the smooth roll of paper that Mei pulls out. She really is beautiful, looking like a snow spirit from the stories Hindol would tell. Hana finds herself marveling at the woman’s pale skin, the experienced, gentle curve to her writing.

 

 _I do not miss her_ , Hana replies while they’re on the subject, feeling somewhat self-conscious of her blocky, less fluid penmanship. _She was never there for me. But I think father misses her, and I miss seeing him smile._

_Will you try to find her?_

Hana shakes her head.

 

_What will you do for your father?_

_For my father,_ Hana writes, not stopping to consider the details. The chatter of the tea house is but a low hum, candlelight seeming to flicker different colors as Mei watches her. _Anything_.

 

Mei smiles, her gaze brilliant, and her laughter is reminiscent of sinister, hollow bell chimes.

 

 

*

 

 

Hana learns soon enough that the charm Hindol gave her is a scary, scary thing.

 

 _He must know many spells_ , Mei clarifies, examining the talisman with clear delight. _He’s from the mountains; the people there see many spirits, many demons_.

 

 _He couldn’t read or write._ Hana takes the charm back, running her fingers over the rough edges and the bits of her name.

 

 _Wu communicate with spirits and gods_. With a glance at the setting sun, Mei scratches a strange character into the dirt. It sparks with bright blue, and Hana suddenly feels very cold. _Some have no need to learn other human languages_.

Nights in the mountains are different from at sea. For one, Hana cannot see the moon through thick canopy, and the sounds of forest silence are stifling in comparison to the whispers and distant murmur of waves. The clouds grow thicker the higher she climbs, and she is uneasy at being surrounded by so much white. The nature here is no less beautiful than what Hana is used to, but it is still very different; there isn’t enough glittering sand, not enough expanses of blue. She misses home.

 

Her hands tremble when she tries writing her first spell. It is for self-protection, since Mei claims that Hana must first learn to fend for herself before depending on Hindol’s talisman.

 

 _It feeds off his spiritual energy to fight against your misfortunes_ , Mei explains later, once Hana is too drained to write any more. The tea that Mei pours is thick, strong, and soothes her insides with warmth. _He must care for you greatly for such a self-sacrificing gift_ , _but put yourself in too much danger, and he will die_.

 

Hana rises early the next morning to pore over masses of scripts and the language that Hindol must know so well. She thinks back to her father fondly. When she thinks of her mother, though, she only feels a deep, consuming bitterness.

 

Mei guides her hands slowly over the foreign symbols and illustrations with a motherly patience. In one of the scrolls, a great ocean spirit is depicted with faded blue. When Mei asks, Hana merely ducks her chin and does not reply. Even here, she can hear echoes of the mudang’s ritual and the following lonely, miserable silence.

 

 

*

 

 

The sea spirit visits Hana in a dream, again.

 

“Why did you take my mother?” Hana asks, feeling bone-weary, fingers stained with ink. She stands atop a silver rock, bare feet surrounded by scatterings of spells on white paper. Most of them are incomplete.

 

It stares down at her impassively, great red eyes looking like pools of freshly spilt blood. Hana remembers being afraid of it, once, but now she feels only a mixture of exhaustion and anger. There’s no reply but the drip of greed and madness from its long black tongue. It seems to lack the capability for speech, instead drawing close enough that Hana could reach out and strike its rotten snout. Given enough time, she might even be able to defeat it completely.

 

She wakes to the full moon illuminating the low-hanging clouds with silver. A year since she’d left, and her only comfort is the assurance that the moon rabbits are likely busy preparing rice cakes.

 

Hana unwraps a fresh roll of silk, dips her brush into ink leftover from yesterday, and writes a letter.

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> typically u see mei's name as:  
> mei = 美 which is the character used when describing true beauty  
> ling = 玲 which is part of 玲珑 (exquisite)
> 
> more on [the wu](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wu_\(shaman\)) and origins of mudang/baksu from [muism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Korean_mythology)
> 
> getting real friggin tired of ppl portraying dva without any real depth tbfh


End file.
